


Neither One's Complaining

by slightlyjillian



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Rivalry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-05
Updated: 2010-09-05
Packaged: 2017-10-11 11:51:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/112129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slightlyjillian/pseuds/slightlyjillian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trowa Barton spent most of his day dealing with idiots. Then the unexpected return of a certain person from his past reminds Trowa how entertaining life had been at one time. Warning: Trowa's sense of humor?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Neither One's Complaining

Trowa Barton spent most of his day dealing with idiots. Of course, his talent at dealing with said idiots such as financial backers, government employees and inspection generals made him absolutely indispensable to Lady Une. So he combed his hair, shaved and splashed his face with water to remind himself that acting the part for the military was as valuable in peace time as piloting a Gundam during the war.

He just couldn't bring himself to believe it no matter what figure they put on his paycheck.

Turning off the light, Trowa watched the ceiling fan blades slowly lose momentum. He pointedly did not look at his list for the day, but without a doubt the perky assistant at the office would let him know as soon as she realized he'd arrived on the base. That left him the duration of the transport to enjoy _not knowing_.

He pulled open the door with a rush of determination, but stopped forthright when he noticed the hall of his apartment complex had an occupant. Typically, Trowa didn't see any of his neighbors. This time, the door across from Trowa's was being stared down by a man with curly dark hair and a brown leather jacket which had seen better days.

"I'm pretty sure that a key will work just as well," Trowa suggested, getting out his own and locking his door behind him. The stranger kept up his appraisal of the doorway, not yet turning but he did put his fists on either hip.

Trowa swung his satchel strap over his shoulder and would have left except for his lingering curiosity about the neighbor. Or perhaps he had some how gotten past security _illegitimately_.

"Excuse me..." Trowa started when the person turned around.

"Do you... ?" Nichol started and then stopped just as quickly. "What the hell, _Barton_?"

"I live here," Trowa commented dryly to cover his amusement. How long had it been? His mind calculated the years since the war and before that his time on Barge. That had been before the snafu with Zero, he realized.

"You're taller," the man said, then furrowed his brow. Hooking his thumbs into his jeans pockets he seemed almost ready to do battle. Then again, Trowa recalled they hadn't left each other on the best of terms.

"I was fourteen the last time we met," Trowa agreed. A silence threatened if the variety of emotions playing across Nichol's features were any indication. The man still seemed incapable of hiding anything. But all the same, he had been entertaining.

"So," Trowa settled himself for a conversation. He could be late. "I see you've picked yourself back up since the last time..."

"I'm doing quite well for myself," Nichol interjected, huffing. Which was a rather amusing reaction, Trowa noted.

Fighting to keep from smiling, Trowa stated, "So you're not lost?"

Nichol flinched, eyes almost pulling to the floor before snapping back to glare hotly.

_Got you,_ Trowa thought. _In_ one...

"The landlord said he'd meet me, but..." Nichol grumbled almost imperceptibly. "I could have sworn he said room 318."

"I think that one is empty," Trowa offered. Then with a cry of dismay, the landlord appeared at the top of the stairs.

"Mr. Nichol," he huffed from the rapid ascent. "I'm so sorry to be late. I had to finish collecting the fax of your financial papers."

The noise Nichol made next sounded like a straining animal. "Wasn't it already in order?"

"Yes sir," the man rambled, rubbing the bald spot on the back of his head. Trowa once wondered if that 's why the hair couldn't grow there for all the nervous tick. "But the income match qualified, let me get your key."

Trowa did laugh then. He couldn't stop the grin that fueled from Nichol's frustrated blush. Trowa might have crowed a little too triumphantly, "You're on the dole!"

***

"So this person you met used to work for Lady Une, but now he's some unemployed guy-on-the-street?" Dorothy sent the straw on another loop around her drink. Then her sparkling blue eyes lifted to catch Trowa's. "Sounds fun."

"He was." Trowa leaned back, oddly satisfied for the first time that he could remember. "He is. He might be again, if he's living right across the hall."

"I'm sure he loves that, if half of what you told me is true," she said. Then turning to their third companion, Dorothy asked, "Can you confirm the clown's story, Wufei?"

Wufei only went out with them because he couldn't resist Dorothy. Trowa had caught the Asian man staring after her on more than one occasion and had bet himself the reclusive Preventor wouldn't turn down a social event if he knew Dorothy would be along. Eventually it turned into their Thursday trio, and one of the few moments during the week that Trowa looked forward to.

At her question, Wufei dropped his chin into his hand and turned toward her. His posture appeared bored, but Trowa knew that the other man calculated Dorothy's every action. "The name sounds vaguely familiar."

"He was on Barge the same time you and Duo were entertaining yourselves in the holding cell." Trowa leaned forward on his arms.

"Now that sounds interesting," Dorothy chuckled slyly. "Do tell."

"Nothing happened, woman," he shifted away.

"Don't be like that," Dorothy elbowed him. Trowa saw the smile that slipped unnoticed. It also was his cue.

"I'm at my limit," he started.

"Do you have a limit?" Dorothy retorted.

"Yes, I have definitely reached a limit." Trowa glanced at Wufei. "Only so much of your obvious flirting a guy can stomach."

He made a fast exit. Two years ago he might have had more patience for them, but if someone needed a shove... well the truth was the fastest way to learn the trapeze of life.

_Trapeze of life_. He'd have to suggest that to Catherine next time she called.

***

For a month, Trowa continued to watch the door across the hall with a small measure of anticipation, but Nichol never appeared. He wasn't absolutely convinced that Nichol had taken the unit. The mailbox name said _Pushkar_, a rather unfortunate name, which entertained Trowa for most of the incredibly boring mid-afternoon conference call with the Vice-_Something-or-Other_ from Estonia.

He had been warned about using his infiltration skills on missions not specifically assigned by the Preventors (and _to_ Trowa specifically, they added later). A three day mandatory training class had been created in part due to Trowa's presence. Although, he smartly reminded them, no one had one shred of evidence proving his involvement in _anything_ untoward. Lady Une's response had been Trowa would attend as _an example_ to their subordinates.

Their landlord made the situation easy hiring a staff person who hated filing. Nichol's paperwork still sat open and visible on the filing cabinet just inside the main office.

"He's just full of surprises," Trowa murmured to himself, somewhat impressed that Nikolai Pushkar had been able to keep his name secret from Trowa for so long. Flipping the page, Trowa lazily read the past ten years of Nichol's life... which amounted to a string of temporary jobs broken by long periods of government assistance programs. He didn't list Lady Une as a reference, which made Trowa laugh out loud. Geographically, Nichol had gradually made his way south across Europe to Northern Africa and had thus far avoided all cities connected to the Preventors until this last relocation.

"Curious that." Trowa glanced at Nichol's birth date and stumbled over the year.

Climbing the stairs back to his apartment, Trowa indulged in the mystery. He had his keys ready but stared long at the closed door of apartment 318. _Now why would he lie about that?_

***

"How old would you say Sally is?" Trowa posed the question the following Thursday. Dorothy, who had begun dressing more provocatively, pursed her freshly glossed lips. Somehow Dorothy and Wufei's knowledge of their mutual attraction had made their gatherings rather predictable.

"Does it matter?" Wufei asked, blushing somewhat. _At what?_ Trowa tried to dismiss the question from his mind. The answers were too many and all correct.

Changing his question, Trowa inquired, "Do I look twenty-four?"

"Yes," Dorothy answered. "Do I look twenty-three?"

"Yes," Trowa volleyed back guessing at her game.

"That's just terrible." Dorothy collapsed back against her seat. "Lesson one," she spoke to Wufei. "Never admit you know a woman's age. Aim low." His puzzled, silent response made her smile soften into something like affection.

"Sally isn't here," Trowa raised a finger as if debating. "Fine then. How old does Milliardo look?"

"Peacecrafts always look like they're sixteen," Dorothy scoffed, another demonstration of her unusual affection. Trowa knew for a fact Dorothy called Relena every Sunday night at eight pm. Her phone rang busy long into the night.

"Guys don't care," Trowa tossed the idea into the mix. "So if I found one who lied about his age?"

"He's hiding," Wufei suggested.

Trowa mirrored Dorothy's posture by pushing his shoulders into the booth cushion. "Now why didn't I think of that?"

***

"Your name isn't Nikolai Pushkar," Trowa affirmed. He had to set up a disciplined routine of checking the peephole every hour, but eventually he caught Nichol vulnerable and in the hallway.

His arms full of grocery bags, Nichol answered with a lifted brow. "Barton, what are you doing up?"

He didn't have an answer. Trowa surged with a rush of adrenaline he hadn't experienced in years. _I knew I liked this guy,_ he thought to himself.

"Stop looking smug," Nichol said, setting down enough bags to free a hand to find his keys. "You haven't done anything impressive."

"Oh, so you've been researching me too?" Trowa leaned against the wall.

"It pays to know your neighbors." Then with a horrified quickness added, "It's not like I singled you out or anything."

"Of course not," Trowa waved his hand as if brushing the notion away. Then he asked with a snatch of wickedness, "What did you learn?"

"Just that you've heeled to the military," Nichol's tone shifted to disinterested as he recollected his supplies. He held the door open with his foot and glanced back once. "Isn't it funny how things turn out?"

Trowa didn't get a chance to answer as the door clicked closed and silent between them. He frowned, disappointed. But he replayed the interaction in his thoughts, dissecting the exchange with profound interest.

***

"Why would you want to dig up that part of the past?" Une crossed her fingers in front of a quirky smile. She had been doing that more often since Mariemaia's swimming team won their school tournament. The young girl, Treize Kushrenada's heir, had been living with Une ever since the last gundam battle. A few years had been particularly wearisome as the girl went through adolescence but until they really started worrying about college applications, Trowa determined to enjoy the advantages of a happy supervisor.

Trowa didn't give the honest answer. "Well, I'd been discussing closure and that might be one of the areas in my life that didn't..."

"Why hasn't this turned up on your psychological evaluations?"

"I must have repressed this..."

"I seem to remember signing off on your former terrorist activities as non-issues to your current employment with the Preventors as being part of the agreement..."

"Amnesia is a tricky condition," Trowa tossed in his favorite, long unused argument.

Une sighed, but her happiness outlasted her reservation. "I'll send the paperwork to Sylvia, but archives will have to go back ten years for this and those documents were never electronically recreated..."

"Tell her I'll owe her one." Trowa celebrated his victory with a hasty exit.

***

Skipping a Thursday hadn't seemed to bother either Dorothy or Wufei in the slightest. Rather than being too hurt by their indifference, Trowa secured a private room in the Preventor research library and with gusto spread Paul Nichol's paperwork across the table.

"This birth date seems more accurate," Trowa calculated. Then he skimmed the Lake Victoria documents which called Nichol "a bright student with an aptitude for the mobile suits." He didn't have a single negative remark until Barge where Une had rather unprofessionally scrawled _detention_ with a brief logic of _insubordination_. Later, it had been amended to "insubordination toward an immediate officer brought about by conflicting orders."

_That's one way of looking at it,_ he thought.

Trowa turned the pages to find copies of Nichol's own accusations against the fledgling OZ recruit conscripted to fly the Vayeate. Not needing to read his own history, Trowa set that small mountain of documentation to the side.

The rest of Nichol's military career was brief. A form letter offer to join the Preventors. A cursory rejection.

Turning back to the profile pages, Trowa tapped his finger against the list of Nichol's near relatives. "I know this name," he shook his head. "And I've got to say I understand not being able to choose one's family..."

***

"Balalaika is your sister," Trowa said without preamble the next time he captured Nichol returning from the grocery store. "And your name isn't Paul."

"Really, Barton? Do you have nothing better to do?" Nichol ran his fingers through his hair but left them tangled in the curls as he continued to speak. "If I tell you, will you stop? Pavel. It's Pavel. And because they first made me speak _English_ at the academy, they also encouraged a more American name on the roster. So I answered to Paul. For years. It wasn't even my pick."

Trowa's smile pulled into one cheek, "So you took that pleasure from me. But I'm right about the sister."

"Pleasure?" Nichol crossed his arms, seemingly in no hurry to find his keys. "Whoever assigns your tasks really doesn't know how to keep you preoccupied."

Trowa had to agree. Nodding, he persisted, "Sister?"

"I'm almost afraid to see your reaction if I said 'yes'," Nichol muttered in a surly fashion. "We're not close. I haven't seen her in years, longer than you--if that gives some perspective. And I don't have contact with her."

"She's Russian mafia," Trowa stated knowing from the lack of surprise Nichol had been fully aware.

"She already fought her war and made her own family by the time I chose to enlist with OZ," Nichol volunteered. "You could probably find that out with a brief search on the Preventor database."

"She's still listed as active." Trowa pushed away from the wall by his door. He wanted the conversation to continue but saw it spiraling to a close.

"I don't think Balalaika knows how not to be," Nichol dropped his hands and his shoulders. Sullenly, he added, "It's better for both of us if I'm out of the picture. So you'll keep your mouth shut?"

"For ten million." Trowa paused long enough to enjoy Nichol's jaw-drop of horror. "Not a penny less," he smirked.

"So you're a comedian now?"

"Retired clown."

***

Two days later, Trowa opened his door to find the landlord going into 318 with a box of cleaning supplies. A heavy stone of disappointment sank through Trowa's throat before he could ask, "It's empty? He's gone?"

"Evicted." The landlord reached for his scalp. "Apparently he had unpaid fines from his last residence. The paperwork came through the fax and when I showed them to him, the guy just bolted. I had to drag his stuff out of here myself. It's all on the street corner if you want to go through it."

"I might," Trowa responded, absently. Tugging on shoes, he went down the stairs and squinted into the daylight as if he might find Nichol standing among his rather pathetic show of belongings. Most of the refuse consisted of kitchen supplies and a wall calendar. A futon and antique cd player made up the rest of the noteworthy items.

Trowa considered the electronic device with interest. Collecting it, he went back to his flat and called in sick for the first time in his life.

***

The first three tracks were contemporary popular songs. When Trowa skipped to the fourth, he listened to the silence only to recoil in surprise when Nichol's voice boomed through the speakers.

_Is this working? It'd better be, because I'm not doing this twice. Not even for you, Barton, and I've got to say I wouldn't even be trying this once except the past few weeks have been the least_ droll _moments in my life for the past few... heck. What am I saying?_

_Listen, I know you know why I've been keeping my life undercover. They catch up to me eventually, but I've really only got two choices. Fall in with Balalaika. Or stay on the run._

_You know about her because I disclosed that to the military. And as much as my life sucks because of_ her_, she's family. And I'm not going to rat her out to them._

_Did you know that was a condition for my replacement? Yeah, they leave that out of the official paperwork, don't they? I guess when the gundams aren't around to preoccupy their attention, it's back to local crime lords they go._

_I hope you weren't using me to get to her. No._

_You're a bastard, but a proper one._

_Which is why I'm telling you that if things had been different, I would have stuck around to show you that I'll always win._

The track continued as if Nichol considered saying more. Trowa waited, but eventually when he'd had enough and reached for the player it skipped to the next song.

In some undisclosed location, Trowa knew that Nichol kept a smile on his face thinking of how entertaining it would have been to know that through the paper thin walls of 317 could be heard the classic Rod Stewart.

_If you want my body and you think I'm sexy. Come on sugar, let me know._


End file.
